


We Built A Home

by MockingBlue (RoyalSeal)



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Credence Barebone Deserves Better, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Past Abuse, Past Child Abuse, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-04
Updated: 2017-05-06
Packaged: 2018-09-06 12:53:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8752309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoyalSeal/pseuds/MockingBlue
Summary: After awaking from his ordeal with the Obscurus energy, Credence finds himself in need of a home. Queenie and Jacob are more than happy to offer him a place in theirs.





	1. An Obscurial Without an Obscurus

There were no bars on his windows, and there was no lock on his door. The floorboards were a sturdy oak, polished and smooth to the touch, the sheets on his bed were crisp and cleaned every three days, and there were beautifully bound books stacked on the shelves across the wall. _You are not a prisoner, Credence._

He was fed three times a day. Trays of food were delivered to his room, served to him on the table that was pushed against the wall, trays with more food than he could ever remember eating in one sitting before. The porridge was always hot, the chicken was always moist, and the potatoes were served with salt and butter. Tea was always served with honey and milk, warm and soothing to his throat. _You are to be treated well, Credence._

Twice a week they would bring him a record player to play something soft and gentle. A slow piano piece that sounded the way rain smelled was one of their favorites to play him. He could lay back in bed and predict which notes would be played next, tapping out his fingers in the air in time with each sound, until at last the record would run out, and he would be left with nothing but the white noise from the needle scratching against the disk, filling his head, drowning out his thoughts. _We want to keep you safe, Credence._

The walls were white.

The doors were white.

The sheets were white.

The table and chair were white.

The curtains were white.

The shelves were white.

The only things in the room with any semblance of color were the floor (brown), the books (chalky blues and muted reds) and the perpetual blue sky and green plants view outside the window.

Everything was purposefully designed to feel hushed. Bland. Unimaginative. The sole purpose of everything in this room, including the books and the twice a week musical privileges, was to keep him occupied but not stimulated, diverted but not interested, engaged but not emotional, their primary concern being that he must not be pushed in any way into doing...into becoming...into melting into shadows and darkness.

Everything in his life seemed to be held in some sort of stagnant limbo, tucked away inside this room, walled away from the rest of the world, living in a small pocket of white light, absent from all noise except for the sound of a breeze and birds outside his window, and his twice a week musical session. No one spoke to him, apart from the very first day he had awoken here, afraid and confused, with a skull splitting headache and agony searing into each of his bones. She had spoken to him, a dark skinned woman who wore a nurse’s outfit and a gentle smile that seeped into her tone and softened all her features but somehow did not reach her eyes. She had stood by his bedside and smoothed out his sheets, called him “sweetheart”, while the piano song that sounded like the scent of rain played soothingly in the background.

_“Where am I?”_

_“You’re in a good house. You’re with good people. You’re safe, Credence. Can you remember anything?”_

_A sickly, sweet noise that rang in his ears and the sensation of undoing, of losing control, but beyond that, there was nothing. Just darkness, which occasionally flickered, as though lit up by a distant thunderstorm and then descending yet again into nothingness._

_“No. What happened?”_

_She blinked, slowly. Too slowly. “There was a rough day. You had a bad time, sweetheart. But you’re alright. You’re gonna stay here a bit, Credence, while we figure out what all’s ailing you.”_

_“But Ma...”_

_“Ma can’t touch you no more, child. I expect you’re hungry. I’m gonna get you something hot and fresh, alright? You just lie back and relax now.”_

Someone else had delivered the food, a pale-skinned man in a white outfit, who never once brought his eyes up from the floor. He had glided around Credence like he wasn’t even there, as though he were setting out a tray of vegetable soup and bread for the walls to consume. It had continued like that, for what Credence could only assume were weeks. Men and women in white clothes would enter with a quiet knock, set out his food, collect his empty trays, strip the sheets off his bed and remake it, place fresh clothes on the clean sheets, and then fade out, shutting the door behind them with a dim, hollow sound. He had tried speaking to them once or twice, but they never acknowledged his presence.

It was a white room, with white sheets and white walls and white tables and chairs, entered only by white-clothed people and entertained only by gentle songs that faded into white noise. It was his life. It was not home, but it was an existence. At any rate, it was a softer, cleaner place than any he had known before with Ma.

But he couldn’t get out. He couldn’t leave. Try opening the door and he would become so dizzy he would have to go back to the bed to lie down. Try moving more than his hand outside the window and his body would become unbearably chilled, no matter how warm and inviting the outside air was. As clean and as calm as it was, it was little better than a prison cell, a place where he could be held captive.

Dreams were his only source of escape, his only means to freedom, so Credence spent much of his time sleeping. It took very little to convince his perpetually exhausted mind to drift off into wild and fantastical visions. Sometimes he dreamed of his old life, dreamed of Ma, coming towards him, belt in hand, her eyes wide and angry, her mouth drawn into a tight line, and he would run from her, but she would always catch him. Sometimes he dreamed of Graves, his wide fingers touching every part of his face, tracing his jaw, stroking his hair, drawing him in, enveloping him in an embrace that smelled like smoke, choking him in a coat of darkness. Sometimes he dreamed of Modesty and Chastity, singing the old My Mama Your Mama rhyme as they stood over him with indifference in their eyes. Sometimes he dreamed of flying, soaring through the streets of the city, the lamps of the city winking as he passed, and a soft, accented voice calling his name with such gentleness that he could almost weep. He liked those dreams. They felt familiar to him.

He was sleeping now, dreaming of the gentle voice, this time mixing with the piano piece that sounded like the smell of rain. The voice was distant and echoey, and spoke words of lament. _I failed you. Oh Credence, I failed you._

Credence wanted to investigate, wanted to find the source of the voice, who spoke his name and who worried for him this way, but something was rousing him, drawing his attention out of his slumber like it was being dragged up from beneath the ocean. He broke the surface of wakefulness with a start, his eyes rushing open and blinking in the white light that collected on the walls. A face entered his line of sight, owlish sort of face, hidden behind thick, round spectacles, and wearing a tired smile. The brown eyes behind the glasses were peering directly into his.

Credence instinctively sat up, and cast his gaze downward at the floor.

“Mr. Barebone.” Said the man, in a rusty voice that rattled at the edges. (Credence wondered how long it had been since anyone had spoken to him). “Do you know who I am?”

He shook his head, still keeping his gaze down.

“Mr. Barebone, I am the 200th on a long list of wizards and witches who have entered this room and seen you, though only the 2nd on a very short list to have spoken to you. Do you know why?”

It was a game of questions, but Credence was too tired to play along. He made no move to reply, expecting the man to draw his own conclusions.

“Mr. Barebone, approximately three months and four days ago, you, under the influence of Obscurus energy, shifted into the form of an Obscurial, destroyed many buildings and streets, and caused untold damage in the city.”

He knew this. He knew all of this. Why did it need to be reiterated in such bland, calculating detail?

“After appropriate action was taken to, hm, _contain_ you, Mr. Barebone, you were later found in a comatose state and brought here under the care of the Magical Congress of the USA. Do you understand me thus far?” When he received no hint of a reply from Credence, the wizard continued, “Our primary concern has been that you might shift back into your Obscurus form, and, as such, we have done everything we can to prevent such a thing. But it would seem, Mr. Barebone, according to the testimony of the 199 wizards who have entered this room before myself, that you have been separated from your Obscurus, as they have felt no trace of power, dark or otherwise, from you. This makes you something of an oddity, Mr. Barebone, an Obscurial without Obscurus. Furthermore, it makes you a wizard without magic, better known as a...”

Credence glared at him. Hard. As hard as he could manage while a film of tears welled up in his eyes.

The wizard ducked his head apologetically, before speaking again, this time in a much softer tone. “I’ll be frank, then. MACUSA’s been rather at a loss for what to do with you, son. They were scared of you when they thought you were still in possession of your Obscurus, but now that they know you’re not, they feel like they’re wasting their time and yours by keeping you here. Unfortunately, there’s still understandable worry that your status as an Obscurial could eventually be disastrous, so they can’t just let you off and to your own devices. But they may have found a compromise. Do you happen to know a witch named Queenie Goldstein?”

At the name “Goldstein”, Credence could feel his attention being pulled back into memories, memories that had once been beautiful and loving, but were now framed and tinted with desperation, fear, and frustration. “Ti...Miss Goldstein...” He started, in a woefully weak voice, but he could not seem to translate his thoughts into words. He sat there with his mouth hanging open, his gaze drifting off towards one of the walls, lost in a haze of memories that threatened to drag his thoughts down into a tangential bog.

“Miss Tina Goldstein,” The wizard was saying, and Credence fought to pay attention. “Is the sister of the witch in question. I believe you and Miss Tina have a, hm, a history with one another. Unfortunately, Miss Goldstein has a very important position as an Auror under MACUSA, and is currently more preoccupied than ever with her work. However, Miss Queenie Goldstein has recently retired to a, _ahem,_ to a small bakery in a no-maj district, and has rather enthusiastically volunteered to take you in.” He paused there magnanimously, sitting back in his chair and weaving his fingers together over his chest, as though awaiting a proper reaction.

Credence blinked twice, trying to process the wealth of information that had just been thrown over him like a bucket of cold water. He put a hesitant hand up to his temple, touching the tips of his fingers to his skin, as though questioning whether his form was really solid, searching to see if this were a dream of some sort.

“Mr. Barebone, if this arrangement is acceptable to you, she is willing to move you in tomorrow. As I said, she is rather _enthusiastic_.”

“Why?” Was all Credence could think to ask, in a low, wobbly whisper.

The wizard leaned forward in his chair. “Son.” He said intently, if kindly. “Here’s my advice to you. My granddaddy always said, ‘You oughta never look at a gift hippogriff’s beak’. Don’t read into the “why” here. This is a gift. Miss Queenie’s offering you a life, room and board, maybe even a job. She’s a sweet girl, from what I hear. Besides...” He leaned back in his chair again and quirked his mouth to the side in a rueful grimace. “Whatever she gives you will probably be better than any cheap spot MACUSA will drop you off in. Go on, Mr. Barebone. Have a little faith.”

Faith was not a thing Credence placed much stock in anymore. Faith only ever seemed to get him hurt. Desperation, however, was something that could drive even the most faithless of persons to the doors of a church, and in this moment, Queenie Goldstein’s offer was like the outstretched hand of God Himself. He only barely remembered shrugging, and giving a blind little nod to signify his consent.

How and when the wizard left, or how the rest of the day passed, Credence could not recall. He only knew that, a scant sixteen hours later, he had been provided trousers, a white shirt, and a very itchy brown sweater vest. After he had dressed, two men and one woman in white ( _Wizards and a witch_ , he realized with a sudden shiver) entered his room. Two of them stood at his side, the other walked behind him, an intimidating setup, and, together, they all left the room that had been his entire existence for what had felt like years.

The hallway that they stepped out into was all paneled wood, and the carpet beneath their feet was green. The space was all lit with thick lanterns that looked like they had once been gas lights, casting an orange glow throughout every corner, and throwing wispy shadows at the walls. Credence eyed every movement that the dark patterns made with distrust, his hands shaking every time he caught one flicker past the edge of his vision.

A woman was standing at the edge of the hallway, her back turned towards them. She was wearing a satin pink coat, with a hat to match, the colors of which were so vibrant that she stood out against the drab paneling of the walls. When she heard footsteps approaching, she turned to face them. Credence’s eyes widened in an awed panic, and he swallowed, trying to wet a throat that had become unexpectedly dry.

She was easily the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Miss Tina Goldstein had had beautiful eyes, and the few times her brown hair had brushed against his face as she held him, he had known it to be wonderfully soft and sweet smelling, but her looks were quiet, like the beauty of a lit candle on a cold, lonely night. Miss Queenie was nothing like that; her features were golden and vibrant, and demanded attention like a daffodil against a snowbank. Her hair was a thousand shades of red, orange, and yellow, flowing out from beneath her hat and around her face in thick curls. The lines of her face were snappy and youthful, her skin unblemished and soft. When she caught sight of the little group, dimples appeared in her cheeks as she smiled a wide and extraordinary grin.

“Oh, hello!” Even her voice was golden, her words forming with a sunny, whispy sort of quality from the back of her throat. She kicked a foot against the ground, as though it made her bashful to greet him, and then giggled, a sugary sweet sound. “Gosh, ain’t you a cutie.”

The witch who was acting as his guard coughed, while Credence furrowed his brow in pure confusion.

She took a step closer, and stretched out a hand invitingly. “I’m Queenie Goldstein. You must be Credence. I’ve heard so much about you.” She made it seem complimentary, as though she had heard nothing but praise, instead of what must have been a great deal of frightened and angry accusations about what he was and what he had done.

Gingerly, afraid of what he might do when he experienced physical contact again after all that had happened, he took her hand. Her skin was shockingly warm as he gave her hand a very limp shake. “Ma’am.” He said weakly, his voice trembling. Quickly, he cast his eyes down, staring at the hem of her coat. He wanted to say more, wanted to introduce himself properly, to thank her for this opportunity, to indicate to her in any way that he could that he was polite and he was grateful, but he didn’t feel grateful. He felt wary. Wary, and angry, and very, very vulnerable.

“Miss Goldstein,” One of his wizard guards said. “Is there anything else we can help you with?”

Queenie looked at Credence as she replied, “We’ve got his clothes put away all nice and neat in our spare bedroom, _your_ bedroom, Credence, and I got all the ingredients for a neat little roast for dinner, so...” She clasped her hands together and bounced on the balls of her feet excitedly. “I guess it’s just about whenever you’re ready, Credence.”

He dared to glance up and meet her eyes, and she smiled invitingly at him, holding out a hand. Swallowing, he shuffled forward, refusing her hand, choosing instead to twist his fingers together nervously, rubbing so hard at the skin on his knuckles that he could feel it burn. Seemingly unperturbed, Queenie patted his arm in very familiar way.

“My husband’s parked outside in his _model T_.” She told him excitedly, savoring the words “model T” as though it were an exotic spice from a foreign land. The witch that had escorted Credence down the hall coughed again, very pointedly, and Credence stopped, glancing over at Queenie questioningly, concerned that he had done something wrong. She only laughed, and, in a sudden burst of movement, looped her arm in his and leaned in very close, giving him a conspiratorial look. In a stage whisper, she hissed, “Everyone thinks I’m a real scandalous old bird for marrying a no-maj.”

Giggling with the deliciousness of the imagined secret she had just shared with him, she threw opened the door to the outside, dropping Credence’s arm and sweeping out into the grey cityscape. Credence, his mind buzzing rather pleasantly, followed, stumbling after her pink silhouette, sucking in his breath with a slight gasp as the air around him shifted away from canned and warm, and became wild. He tasted the wind, a free creature that darted through every shadow and corner on the street, and filled his lungs with the taste of gasoline and the sea.

The door closed behind him with a groan, and he turned to look at it, gazing at the drab, unassuming slab of wood, one of only a few that had stood between him and the outside for so long. It seemed so weak now, and he wondered how any of it had ever kept him from leaving. But Queenie was calling, her voice sweet and loud as it sailed merrily through the tendrils of the breeze. She was waiting for him by a black, boxy automobile, one hand resting on the door handle, the other waving to him.

Credence followed her, and did not look back.


	2. Questions with No Strings Attached

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right so...I know it's been six months but I SWEAR I CAN EXPLAIN. 
> 
> I'm honestly so sorry I neglected this for so long. First there were the holidays, then school started, and I just haven't had the chance to even look at this for ages. I'm back now, and hopefully, I'll actually finish this. Thank you so much for being so patient.

The man in the driver’s seat was a conundrum to Credence. As soon as he had slid into the back seat of the car, squeaking over the uncomfortable leather upholstery, the driver had turned around and given him a little wave in lieu of a handshake. 

“You must be Credence.”  He said, with a tight-lipped, bright-eyed smile. “Jacob Kowalski. I’m Queenie’s  _ no-maj _ husband.” He winked, as though the term had some sort of significance, but the meaning was lost on Credence. He waited for the man to hold out a doughy hand for him to shake, to insist that Credence call him ‘sir’ or ‘Mr. Kowalski’, but no such thing occurred. He watched as Jacob only ran his dark eyes up and down Credence, the smile still plastered to his lips even though a look of intensity glimmered in his expression. Jacob’s gaze glanced up to meet Credence’s for the briefest of moments, and then his mouth and his shadow of a mustache twitched to the side in a knowing sort of way. He turned away to face the road after that, leaving Credence to become acquainted with the back of the man’s dark and curly hair.

“Alrighty then,” Jacob announced, turning the key in the ignition and letting the engine rev up. “Let’s get on home!” 

The engine was loud, thrumming like an angry cat when the car was stopped, rattling and hammering like a skyscraper construction site when it was moving, so the occupants of the car did not engage much in conversation. Credence spent most of the ride staring out the cityscape that rolled by, the automobiles, pickups and horse-drawn buggies that whizzed past him like a raging current of water. From time to time, he could feel Queenie’s smiling gaze drifting over him, but he kept his eyes averted, and she did not speak to him. 

They finally arrived at their destination; a quaint, little storefront, from which a sign, emblazoned with block letters, declared the place to be “Kowalski’s Bakery”. Large glass windows at the front and enormous racks by the door of the place showed off the most wonderful loaves of braided bread, twisted salted pretzels, crescent and almond shaped croissants, sugared and glazed doughnuts, and sweetbreads that had been molded into the shapes of the strangest creatures, puffy and squat, with fur made from sugar glaze and little eyes made from dark candies. The doors were locked, and a sign over the window announced that they were closed, but the scent of fresh bread and sweets still wafted out from inside, lazily floating up to greet those that made their way down the street. 

“Home sweet home!” Jacob announced, throwing open his door and clambering out with a contented grunt, before opening the door to the backseat as well and extending a hand to Queenie. 

“We live in the apartment just above here,” Queenie explained, as she took Jacob’s and slid out onto the sidewalk. “It always smells like baking up there.” She smiled again, radiant and warm, and slipped her arm through Jacob’s, and added, half to Jacob and half to Credence, “It’s real neat.” 

Credence flicked his gaze up to the top of the building that gleamed in the sun before him. There were windows in the apartment above, but the glare of the morning light would not allow him to see through the glass. Whatever his new residence looked like remained a mystery, locked somewhere away behind an army of baked goods. A begrudging sense of curiosity got the best of him, and he slowly slid out of his seat and followed after Jacob and Queenie.

The sound of a bell as the doors opened startled Credence, causing him to inhale sharply. After identifying the source of the noise, he squeezed his hands into fists and tried to calm his suddenly racing heartbeat, berating himself for being so startled by a  _ bell _ . Searching for some stability, he hunched himself over, breathing more quietly as his chin tucked into his chest. He could see the black fabric of Jacob’s jacket moving ahead of him, and did his best to focus on it, forcing his breathing to quiet and his heartbeat to slow. 

Again, he could feel Queenie’s gaze drifting over him. 

Credence took a moment to pause, under the pretext of examining a rack of cinnamon rolls and removing his hat. When he had composed himself enough that he could look up again, Queenie’s attention had been occupied elsewhere.

“The apartment’s just upstairs,” Jacob said helpfully, jerking a thumb over his shoulder to a door behind the bakery counter. 

“Are you hungry, Credence?” Queenie asked casually, slipping out of her coat as she spoke.

“I’m fine ma’am.” Credence replied quietly. He was, in fact, starving, but admitting to hunger, thirst, or cold was a shortcoming, both as an imposition to one’s host and also an admission of weakness. Credence could stomach neither. 

Queenie raised an eyebrow and tilted her head slightly, casting him a look that plainly said she didn’t entirely believe him, but she quickly threw that expression off in favor of one of excitement. “Well, come on upstairs anyway. I wanna show you the place where you’ll be staying!” She practically danced over to the door behind the cash register, throwing it open to reveal a flight of stairs, and glancing over her shoulder as though to inquire why the boys weren’t keeping up with her. Warily, but drawn by her excitement, Credence followed, stumbling a little as Jacob also stepped forward. The two fumbled about each other awkwardly for a moment until Credence finally broke free, shuffling after Queenie while Jacob trudged along behind him. 

Queenie waited for them at the top of the stairs, her hands curling about the door jam and her head peering out the doorway impatiently. The smile on her face never wavered, but it seemed to take on a nervous glimmer as she stepped back to let Credence enter. 

The floor beneath his feet was solid, well polished, covered here and there with thick, floral patterned rugs, comprised of washed-out red, green, and yellow colors. The paneled walls were a mild yellow, textured by a few cracks but none the worse for the wear, and there were white shelves and cupboards upon which were carefully organized books, chinaware, and clocks with extraordinarily ornate faces. There was a kitchen nestled off to the right, hidden away behind a tall countertop, from which peeked out the top of a shiny icebox. Before them lay the living and dining area. In the very back of the room, there was a blue and white checked covered table and chairs, carefully placed by the window so as to catch the sunlight. Closer to the doorway was the parlor, where a comfortable looking beige sofa with a fluffy pink throw and an easy chair were nestled around a dark wood coffee table and fireplace. 

For someone who had spent the last few months in a room specifically designed to be as unstimulating as possible, Credence felt very overwhelmed. 

Only one thing in the room seemed secure to him, and that was the beige sofa, which seemed bland enough to appeal to his dulled senses, even if it was being touched by the colorful blanket. He focused his attention on the arm of it, blinking heavily as he said softly, mechanically, “You have a very nice home. Thank you for inviting me into it.”

It was a safe statement, one that was irreproachable in nature, and invited no further conversation. He hoped it would do for them. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Queenie turn her head and make some sort of a face at Jacob, but Credence could not comprehend its meaning before she started speaking. “Why don’t you take a seat?” She said invitingly, gesturing him towards the sofa he felt so drawn to. “Make yourself a little cozy and I’ll get dinner started.” She moved forward and patted the back of the sofa, the nervousness still lingering in her eyes. The expression on her face egged at him, and he scoured his mind, wondering what he had done to upset her, to elicit from her what he could only assume was fear. In an effort to placate her, he shuffled forward and sat down very gingerly on the sofa as she requested. The upholstery was smooth to the touch, and the stuffing in the couch gave a little bounce whenever he moved. Gingerly, he planted the knuckles of a fist on top of it in an attempt to steady himself and, as subtly as he dared, he peered over his shoulder, hoping to gauge Queenie’s reaction. She had already turned away, however, and was walking towards the kitchen. One of her hands clutched the offending pink blanket, dragging it along after her. 

And just like that, Credence was tucked into the Kowalski household and accepted as an indelible fixture within. Jacob hummed a tone deaf little ditty as he shrugged off his jacket and hung it up on the coat rack, then slow danced over to the fireplace, where he set about making up a good blaze. A kettle whistled in the kitchen as pots and pans clattered about, and a delicious smell rose up through the apartment, roast meat and vegetables with a heady sprinkling of garlic. A heaviness rose up in Credence’s heart as the rest of his body threatened to relax. His back betrayed him, sinking back into the thick, springy cushions of the sofa, and his lungs turned against him, letting out a quiet sigh of comfort. Yet his heartbeat quickened in his chest, and a series of familiar thoughts beat a tattoo in the back of his mind, reminding him that this could not last, that all of this was surely a dream, that soon there would be a catch. 

Satisfied with the blaze that he had made, Jacob turned back to Credence, brushing off his hands and the knees of his pants. “Oh ‘ey, did you want to see your room?” He inquired, his hand flying up almost of its own accord to animate his words. “It’s a bit small, but Queenie fixed it up pretty nice for you, and all your stuff that MACUSA found is in there. Thought you might like to go through it and make sure that it’s...it’s...yanno,  _ good _ .”

Credence didn’t know, but he got up all the same and trudged after the man towards a hallway beyond the kitchen, towards a door with wood so bright that it almost seemed red. Jacob opened it for him and stepped to the side to let Credence enter first. 

Jacob was right, it was a very small space, with barely enough room for a bed, a rug, and a chest of drawers, but every bit of space that had been taken was filled with a loving touch. The bed was carefully made up with two ivory white pillows, and covered with a cream colored quilt. A little cloth with embroidered calla lilies and ivy leaves was draped over the chest of drawers, and on top of it rested a small lamp, propped up next to a few books. There was a window beside the bed, and the curtains that covered it were white lace, drenched in sunlight. 

Credence had to bring the cuff of his sleeve up to his mouth and bite on it before he dared walk into such a dream. Slowly, with rapt attention, he surveyed everything the room had to offer, running careful hands over the bedclothes, sneaking fingers through the curtains and watching them flutter, gingerly opening drawers and finding that they really were full of his clothes, so drab and dark in comparison with the softness of the room that housed them. 

Jacob watched him, a brilliant smile lighting up his face. “So you like it, eh?”

Credence had no reply to such a question. ‘Like’ was too small a term to sum up his feelings upon the gift of the room. ‘Like’ could not describe his wonder that someone, that  _ anyone _ would let him have such a place. ‘Like’ could not explain his fear that the catch, the omnipresent catch, would surely come out and find him soon. 

He sat down on the bed, the mattress springs squeaking as he did so, and he allowed his eyes to close, just for a moment. 

It seemed to be enough of a reply for Jacob. 

They ate dinner in the dining room, from which the tablecloth had mysteriously disappeared, leaving behind only the natural wood beneath it. Queenie had made a delicious pot roast with potatoes and carrots, seasoned liberally with garlic. There was magic used in the setting of the table, and Credence watched with fascination and a stale sense of fear as dishes floated through the air to their places, candles lit themselves, and serving spoons doled out massive portions of beautiful smelling food. He managed to sneak a long, envious look at her wand, a beautiful, sleek thing, which she liked to tap against her lips whenever she was thinking. 

He ate three helpings of dinner that night, not because he asked (he could never ask), but because each time he finished, a charmed serving spoon would insist upon refilling his plate until all his hunger was properly abated. He felt sated and warmed as he leaned back against his chair and let out another quiet sigh. Queenie smiled at him as he did so. He didn’t smile back, not completely, but his mind relaxed. She smiled a little wider. 

Jacob touched her arm and gave her a very long look. Her smile died away and she closed her eyes.

_ Ah _ . Thought Credence, his body growing heavy as it sank back into the edges of his chair.  _ Here it comes. The Catch. _

“Credence...” Queenie began, then stopped, and drew breath. “I gotta be honest with you. Me and Jacob...we talked about it, and we don’t think you should be under any sorta false impressions. We think you deserve the truth.”

He could feel his eyelids threatening to close, his body begging to retreat into sleep, as it always did. “I don’t want the truth.” He mumbled, his full belly and the warmth of the room lulling him into insolence. 

“Can I...can I just...?” Jacob interjected carefully. Both Queenie and Credence looked towards him, and he took that as a sign to continue, leaning forward in his seat and pressing his fingertips against the tabletop. “I swear I get you, son. Ignorance is bliss and...yeah, all that, but you gotta be able to make informed decisions. You gotta know what you’re getting into here.” He leaned back again in his chair with a sigh. “But uh...if you really don’t want to know, I guess that’s your choice too.”

Now they had him in a bind. Unused to making decisions, particularly about what he wanted for himself, Credence could think of nothing to do but to lean forward in his seat and hunch his head down towards his chest. He allowed them the barest of nods, not even sure what it was that he meant by it, and waited for the bombshell to drop. 

Queenie inhaled. “I’m a Legilimens, honey.”

Jacob quickly added, “‘Means she can read minds.”

His own mind was a flickering wasteland of black with the occasional white-hot scream. He could feel his jaw tightening, his neck cording with some emotion, though whether it was fear or anger or sheer frustration, even he didn’t know. 

“That’s a big part of why MACUSA let us take you in.” Queenie’s eyes were downcast, and she twisted her wedding ring around and around on her finger. “They thought I could keep an eye on you. But Credence, I don’t want to just read your mind without you wanting me to. If you don’t want me to read your mind, you can just...” She swallowed audibly before finishing, “...well, I’ll stop. I won’t do it. Honest.”

In a tired voice, Credence replied, “Right.” He scraped his chair back and stumbled to his feet. He had no ideas for an escape, he simply knew he needed to leave before he vomited or fell asleep. He needed time.

With nowhere else to go, Credence staggered to the room that had been designated as his. He shut the red door behind him with a soft  _ click _ and sat down once again on the squeaky mattress as he tried to gather his thoughts. He could hear the sound of dishes moving about outside his room and idly wondered what sort of magic that required. But the thought of magic in his exhausted and emotionally unstable state made him think of Mr. Graves, with his healing touch for Credence’s feverish wounds and his soft voice that would whisper quiet reassurances, building up tension under Credence’s skin until it all had to come ripping and roaring out in...in...

Credence gathered up the cream colored quilt and rolled himself in it, desperate for a bit of camouflage, a way to hide his darkness in this warm and unfamiliar house. The blanket smelled faintly of roses and something sugary that stirred the ghost of a memory, hidden away in the back of his mind, of a pink frosted cookie that some kind person had given him once when he was very small, and the world had not been so dark. 

He fell asleep, finally, dragged down into a blissful darkness by the heaviness of his body and the loving memory of a sugary gift. 

It was several hours later that he woke, and for a brief, terrifying moment, he could not remember where he was. The lines of the ceiling above him were unfamiliar, as was the smell of the place about him, and he could feel bile rising up in his throat. But moonlight streamed in through the lace curtains of the window next to him, casting beautiful white silhouettes across the wrinkled wasteland of his bedclothes, and he breathed more easily as he remembered where he was. 

A familiar sound caught his attention, slipping under the door and to his ear like a midnight breeze, and he lifted his head off the pillows and untangled himself from the blankets. He was still dressed in his day clothes, even his boots were still laced, he could feel everything sticking to him like so much mud. As quickly as he could in the darkness, he kicked off his boots and jacket, hauled himself off the bed, and moved quietly towards the door in search of the sound. 

The moment his hand turned the doorknob, he recognized it with a cold thrill. It was  _ the song _ , the one they had always played for him, the song that sounded like the smell of rain. Mystified, and more than a little enchanted, he made his way through the unfamiliar surroundings, aided by the light of the moon, until he had reached the living room. He stopped, and listened, struck breathless by the moment. 

Queenie was there, wrapped up in a dressing gown, her back turned to him, as she stared at the record player, so still that she might have been a statue, had not some draft in the room ruffled the curls of her hair ever so gently. She turned when she heard him come in, her eyes perking up slightly at the sight of him, as though she were not surprised, but certainly happy. She looked different in the moonlight; not quite so golden, a little more tired, and far more human. 

“I like this song.” She breathed, looking up at the windows and the moonlight that streamed through them. “It’s one of Jacob’s. I’ve been trying to listen to all his favorite records and find out what all he likes. Most of it’s jazz but some of it’s...this.” A dreamer’s look spread over her face, wondrous and vulnerable, glowing in the pale light. “I think it sounds like a walk in the evening. One of those walks where it’s just you and your good thoughts, and maybe a few twinkling lights in the city.” She looked at Credence with a questioning smile, as though inviting him into her dream, and something in him stirred, born up by the cold, quiet music and the way she looked at him, as though she trusted him completely.

His voice seemed rusty and his eyes unfocused as he said slowly, “I always thought that it sounded like...the smell of rain.”

She replied sincerely, “Mmmm, I like that.”

There was a brief moment where only the music played. Credence’s fingers moved to tap out the timing of the notes against his trouser leg.

“When I was...with MACUSA...” He began and then paused, quirking his mouth as he realized how strange the word ‘MACUSA’ felt on his tongue. “They would play me music, sometimes. Twice a week, I think. They played... _ this _ ...often.” He gestured feebly at the record player, realizing through the blankness in his mind that he had no name for the piece, only a feeling of rapture. He looked down at the ground, his default defense, but managed to add what he had been trying to say throughout his small babblement. 

“I liked it.”

A twinge of bitterness dripped into the quiet of his mind, and the beginnings of a scowl tugged at the edges of his mouth. “But I guess...if you can read my mind, you  _ knew _ that.”

Queenie turned her head to look back at the record player. She was biting her lip, and there were lines in her forehead as she frowned. They conjured up memories in Credence’s head of another Goldstein witch who had sought to take care of him. 

“I touched it,” Queenie admitted softly. “I touched your mind, ‘cause I was nervous and sometimes it’s an accident. Sorta like instinct, to protect me.” She turned back to face him, weaving her fingers in and out, her beautiful face contrite and anxious. “But I swear I didn’t go deep. I knew you didn’t exactly take to all the colors and that was it. I ain’t going any deeper. Ever. I don’t need to. I...” She stopped herself, put a finger to her lips as though reminding herself to hush. 

Credence said nothing. He had nothing to say. But Queenie seemed to have rethought her silence. She looked down at the floor as she spoke in a way that felt familiar to Credence.

“I already know what you got in your head. Part of it, anyway. ‘Cause me and Teenie...we lived that too, you know. We got orphaned real young. I mean, we got lucky and we had Ilvermorny. Wish you’da had Ilvermorny. You’d have fit in just swell. But I still know how it sticks in your head. How the bad times find a place in there and they never leave. And how...no matter  _ who _ tries, or how  _ hard  _ they try...nobody’s ever gonna be  _ Mom _ like she was.”

The song was still playing, even though it felt as though a cold hour had passed in that dark living room. Both Queenie and Credence stared at the ground, controlling their thoughts, composing their minds, as they were both accustomed to doing. It was a long, long while before either of them spoke.

“Debussy.”

Credence narrowed his eyebrows questioningly at the foreign word. Queenie repeated it.

“Debussy. The no-maj who wrote this. I think that’s how you say his name. It’s called ‘Clair de Lune’.” She kicked a slippered foot awkwardly against the floor, searching for something more to say. Her eyes flickered upwards, their familiar glint of mischief sparkling in the moonlight. “I could go for a little cocoa.” She mentioned. “You want some?”

She looked towards him expectedly, her head tilted to the side, as the question hung in the air between them. Credence remained silent, but not unhearing. An immediate refusal had automatically risen up to his lips, but in act of rebellion, he had caught it between his teeth and held it there, tasting the familiar shape of many years worth of “No thank yous”. It had been a very strange day for him, full of choices and decisions. People asked him questions and expected answers with no strings attached, just little things like how he was and whether he wanted something. They expected to him to answer for himself, for no reason other than that they were curious.

Credence considered the question. 

Queenie did not bounce ahead, did not tap her foot, did nothing to indicate her excited impatience. She simply waited. 

Credence felt the warmth of the memory of a pink frosted cookie offered for no reason but kindness and made his decision. 

“Yes please ma’am.”

The smile that spread over her face made the tips of his ears grow red. Queenie began to make her way to the kitchen, her slippered feet skipping lightly over the carpeted ground, her arms swinging the billowing sleeves of her lacy dressing gown like the petals of a rose before a summer breeze. Credence shuffled after her, holding his hands close to his chest, then, when he was sure she couldn’t see, testing out a little swing of his own arms.


End file.
